


six birthdays skye had

by zauberer_sirin



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Childhood, Coulson is the best at emotional support, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Orphanage, POV Skye | Daisy Johnson, Past Miles Lydon/Skye | Daisy Johnson - Freeform, Romance, Skye gets a happy ending, Skye | Daisy Johnson Feels, Skye | Daisy Johnson's Past, Skye | Daisy Johnson-centric, Team Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 10:43:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4260312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/pseuds/zauberer_sirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Birthdays are the worst. And hers are not even real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	six birthdays skye had

**one**

Birthdays are crap.

That's just a fact.

When you are an orphan it's obvious why. And she doesn't even know when she was born – ever since she found out she was left with the nuns and there is no real way to prove her actual birth date she's felt like it's all a farce, you know, these celebrations.

She had a couple of good ones, good birthdays, she guesses, when she was little and had no idea what was going on. When she still didn't have the stigma of being the girl who always gets sent back. When foster parents tried. She's beginning to forget (she has to) but she had a couple of good ones, the one with the big house and the fields and the family dog and the laughter and the big chocolate cake with pink frosting and the slow sunset after playing all day.

But now she knows the truth: birthdays are crap.

If she even gets to celebrate. Because this year, she doubts.

Sister Eileen confirms her suspicions.

"What do you mean, _no cake for you_? My birthday falls on this month, it's my party too."

That's what they do in St Agnes, to cut expenses – they group birthdays by months, instead of having individual parties on the actual days for every kid. Cheap, okay, but also it's a lot more friendly; it's not like the girls here have many friends outside to invite, there's a feeling of companionship. She doesn't mind the cheapness. They get to make fun of the lame party all together and it doesn't feel that lame anymore.

The parties themselves are a bore, no way around it. And it's always ice cream cake, over and over. The same cake every year, every month. But hey, she still wants a plate.

"What have I done this time?" she asks.

Again with the attitude, it's the first thing they tell her.

Then it's all about her latest failure at obtaining a family. She's been back in St Agnes for about two weeks since her last not-foster-home, almost-foster-home. And of course everyone acts like it's her fault (whose fault is it, if not hers? well, don't ask her) and every word they say to her drips disappointment. They even say her name like that, like she broke some kind of promise. She hates her name, but specially when the nuns says it like that.

"Do _you_ think you deserve a birthday party?" the Sister says, in that annoying passive-aggressive way of putting negative stuff into questions so you yourself make the veredict. She knows that trick. She also knows what this is about.

The dumb decanter again. 

Sure, she broke it. Sure, she took a sip of scotch (which, awful, how do adults even drink that stuff). She also cut her hand trying to clean up the mess – people leave that out if the story (she leaves that out of the story, it's emabrrassing). She's paid for her mistake with blood, okay. What has the ice cream cake has to do with this?

As soon as she heard the hissing sound of thick glass breaking she knew she was out of that house. She knows what she's done.

That's no reason to leave a girl without cake, if you ask her.

She goes back to her room in fumes. 

(It's kind of where she's at, these days, this year. Feeling some sort of ugly, alien rage that's a bit too big for her body. But she's a good girl, she _has to be_ , so she pushes it down, forgets about the anger if she can, stays still and does nothing about it if she can't.)

"They didn't let you into the party, did they?" one of her three roommates, Reid, tall and older and (according to her own words) as " _unforsterable_ " as her, asks.

"They said I don't _deserve_ cake."

"Maybe Jesus told them you didn't deserve cake."

She laughs, taking the bunk opposite Reid. She misses last year when she had the top bunk, though. Bunk privileges are something else that Jesus thinks she shouldn't have. It's crowded in here, anyway, and she doesn't understand why the boys get all the individual rooms. Maybe it's Jesus' doing as well.

"Well, I figured they wouldn't let you go down to the living room, so..."

Reid produces something from behind her. It's a plate covered with a thin paper napkin and under it her friend reveals a small slice of stupid ice cream cake.

"I don't know what to say."

She could use a hug, it's what she has been thinking all day – she just doesn't know how to put it into words, this idea that she sometimes feels like she could be incorporeal or something, for all other people care. And she doesn't mean to sound like one of those smog-covered orphans in Dickens (she hasn't read any of that, but she saw an endless movie with Harry Potter in it) but she really can't remember the last time she was hugged, properly hugged.

"It's just some cake," Reid says, rolling her eyes. "You gotta play tougher, Sue."

"Yeah, yeah. Got you."

Birthdays are for lessons too, and this is a good one.

She still offers Reid a bit of her cake. She'll toughen up tomorrow.

 

**two**

Birthdays are crap and she can see the irony of getting told to pack up her things on her birthday.

She doubts her foster parents even remember what day today is. She wonders if they ever knew.

She's been here just five weeks and wow, that has to be a record, even for her.

She's not looking forward to what the nuns will say about that, about how she has profoundly offended baby Jesus or something. As if Jesus didn't have anything better to do.

At least she'll be out of New Jersey for good and back in her old school soon. For what is worth, since she's not doing that well there, either. She has been counting the days until she can legally walk away for good, be rid of the tyranny of the orphanage. Away from anyone who knows her story. 

She doesn't normally count the days until her birthday, because it always turns out crappy, and crappier than she imagined. She doesn't count the days until her birthday but she will count the days until she can get rid of all this hoping and wishing and the idiotic belief (still? after all these years? you must be as stupid as they say) that this time things will be different.

She's close to cutting the waiting short. Close to figuring out a way (fake ID, a new identity, what about no identity at all? she wonders if technology can do that, wipe her clean) to speed it up. She daydreams about not having a birthday. She's kind of there, already. Her birth date is not her birth date. Just another lie to unravel if she could (one day, one day). And she would love to be anonymous, unrecognizable. Out of the system, Skye has been thinking about that. No more failed attempts at normalcy. If she's never going to have this, she might as well have nothing in between.

If she can't have good things she might as well have nothing.

On her fifteen birthday she packs up her things again and she's lost the count. She's weary more than sad. She feels tempted to ask for a phone call, forget about the pre-paid bus ticket back to Hell's Kitchen waiting for her and just as her not-boyfriend to pick her up. But expecting boys to cheer you up on your fake birthday would be way too lame.

"The nuns told me to watch you when you leave," her soon-to-be-ex-foster-father tells her as she finishes packing her one suitcase. She's learnt how to make this inevitable step blissfully short, and has decided to keep to her rule from now on, that everything she owns should fit in one suitcase or one bag. "That you steal things."

That's an absolute fallacy – she still has great scores in vocabulary and don't you forget it – but she's not going to dispute it with this weak asshole. He's not the worst foster father she's ever had, but only because that's the lowest bar ever, and both him and his wife are enough of a non-entity that they didn't get in her way but the three of them have all hated every minute she's been in the house.

She snorts at him, between teenage defiance, teenage melodrama and very real disappointment.

"You don't have anything worth stealing, Carl," she says.

And maybe that's the key, she realizes. Maybe that's the secret to lead a painless existence. Or at least in her case. Nothing can hurt you when you _are_ nothing.

She doesn't bother telling her already-ex-foster-parents it's her birthday.

Who knows? It's probably not her real birthday anyway. 

 

**three**

Birthdays are shit but it's not Miles' fault that he doesn't know how much.

She should be grateful that he tries. And she is – no one else has tried before, for her, it means something.

"So this what you have been up to?" she comments when they arrive at the door of the restaurant.

Miles has been taking up too many work assingment – and for those dicks at the private security firm downtown – and it was beginning to be suspicious.

"You didn't have to do this, you know," she tries to tell him as he tells the maître their names. At least they are fake names, that's fun.

The waiter sits them in a good place by the window. Miles probably paid extra for that. Skye feels a bit guilty and tries to cheer up for him.

"And... you're wearing a jacket. I'm appalled," she jokes.

He runs his fingers along the lapels, finding the whole thing strange as well. He shrugs.

"I thought of going for the whole suit, but where does one even buy a suit."

"Google it, you dumbass. But I prefer it," Skye says, giving the whole jacket-tshirt-jeans combination an approving glance, lamenting the shave. "Suits are such a turn off."

They feel awfully out of place. Which is not a feeling Skye relishes, particularly, and it's not Miles' fault but she hates the idea of being made to feel this way – made to remember how it felt – on her birthday. She tries to swallow it down, for him, and takes a look at the menu, taking the chance to hide her face of a moment.

"Have you seen the prices?"

"That was the idea, Skye. Treat you."

"We could have just bought some bottle of wine with the money," she says, gripped by a feeling of wanting to run. Something she hasn't felt in a while. "When can we go back to my van and make out?"

Miles smiles but dimisses the plan.

It was a good plan. Instead of sitting uncomfortably in some posh restaurant.

Things have been going well for her. Well, _better_ , let's not get carried away. Miles has helped. In just over a year they are not the people they were when they met but they fit. They evolve together. And jokes aside the van has helped. It's not having her own place but it's home. Somewhere to go back to at the end of the day. Yeah it's second-hand and impermanent and unsafe but it's hers.

"What should we order?" Miles asks.

Skye shrugs. "My culinary expertise starts and ends with Hot Pockets."

"Chicken?"

"Chicken is always a good idea."

Miles pouts. "You don't like the place."

"The place is okay. I like you. It's the people here... not our crowd."

"I thought that would be funny."

"Mmm."

It's not Miles' fault that he doesn't know each and every little detail that might bring Skye back to a bad memory. There are too many.

She hasn't told Miles everything about her foster home experience. The really bad parts she had to tell him. That's what you do when you love someone – not that Skye has ever told Miles she loves him – you tell them the bad parts. But the little daily miseries, that she has kept to herself. Like how she spent some time with people who would eat at places like this one. How she knows a bit about this kind of people, and she does not like what she knows.

"I had some parents who would come to restaurants like this one," she comments. "Date nights. Ugh, imagine being that boring."

"I don't know," Miles says, a bit defensively. "It would be nice. Aren't you tired of showering at friend's places?"

"Not if I end up with those faces," she points at the couple in front of them.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I wanted to do something special."

"And that's really nice. Thank you."

Miles knows her well enough to figure it out for himself, that special doesn't mean this. It's never going to be about expensive dinners. It's never going to be about things. She's always been honest about that. 

Maybe it should be about the fact that he tried. 

Maybe that's enough, because it has to be, because no one has done this for her before.

He even asked the kitchen to put little candles in her dessert – birthday _tiramisu_ , now that's funny. Fortunately the place is too uppity and no one attempts to sing "happy birthday" to her.

"Should have taken me to TGI Friday's for that and save all this money," she tells him, kissing him across the table.

It's not a perfect birthday – she gave up illusions of having those a long time ago and that's good, a lot of things with Miles are not perfect, but they are enough – but it's probably the best one Skye has ever had.

Eventually they go back to her van and make out, which is a lot better.

 

**four**

Birthdays are shit, so perhaps it's better than no one has to know about this one.

Still, it feels weird, knowing today is her birthday – a year older than she had initially planned, what a mess – and not telling anyone.

She gets vertigo if she thinks about it. What is a perfectly normal thing for normal people – normal people know and have always known exactly when they were born – it's novelty for someone like Skye. It's the first time it happens.

She just wants to say it out loud. See how it sounds.

Probably better if she doesn't, she decides, concentrating on the job, on today being like any other day of the year.

She doesn't feel she has the right to make a deal out of it, anyway. The team is only just settling after Simmons' ordeal, and Coulson is still figuring what to do about his arm. She would feel selfish, most likely, talking out loud about something as insignificant as her birthday. As the first time she knows her birthday is indeed this date and not some farcical lie. It feels weird, just knowing it – and knowing it was a hot night and Cal went to borrow the neighbour's car, it's feels weird knowing these details when Skye would have given all she had for details, once upon a time.

"What's wrong?" Coulson asks.

They are in his office, reviewing candidates for the first Caterpillar mission together all morning.

"Sorry, I was distracted."

"I noticed," he says, kindly.

She sighs.

If she can tell anyone it's Coulson.

"You know how my file has my date of birth the day I was dropped at St Agnes?" Coulson nods. "I always celebrated my birthday on that date. Because no one really knew when I was born, with it being part of a secrete SHIELD mission."

Coulson nods again. Skye thinks that there can't be that many kids out there who for most of their lives didn't really know exactly when they were born. Her companions at the orphanage always found that odd about Skye and as she grew up she realized it was indeed unusual. The lack of a paper trail was alarming. Even in the most dire of circumstances there usually was a vague knowledge of where the baby came from. Skye felt like in one of those tales or movies where the mother tearfully leaves the baby on the steps of a church and runs away. In those movies the mother always leaves a memento in the baby's basket. Skye doesn't want to remember how her own mother ended up.

"When I was with my mother," she tells Coulson, "you know, before we realized she was a psycho and she tried to kill a bunch of people, including me."

This time Coulson gives her a careful look. Skye knows that there's more to Jiaying than just that but she's not ready to think about that just yet – the memory of her cold touch and how it was like to feel your own life being drained drop by drop out of your body, the memory is still too recent. And without that sinister memory the grief will surely come. She's not ready to go there yet.

"She told me when I was born, when I was _actually_ born," Skye says. 

"That's good. Though I'm guessing you have started reading a different horoscope now," Coulson jokes. Badly. But he smiles at how bad the joke was. Skye smiles at his effort. It's not easy talking about this stuff, and she it can't be easy _hearing_ about it either. "So when is it?"

"I was born on July 2nd, 1988."

Skye doesn't have to wait for realization to dawn on Coulson.

"Today is your birthday," he says out loud, though he says it to himself.

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know."

She shrugs. "It's okay, I didn't know either, for many many years."

"Do you want to take the day off?" he asks.

"No, no," she shakes her head. "I didn't tell you because of that. I didn't tell you for any reason really. I just... wanted to tell someone."

He looks at her like he wants to protest but then he doesn't. What would she do, anyway, if he gave her the day off? She has nowhere to go. All her friends are here. Her life is here. And the kind of life she has... birthdays are not a priority. She's sure Coulson would agree with that.

"Thanks for listening," she tells him.

"Anytime," Coulson says, and while Skye is not about to abuse that privilege she knows he means it too. 

They finish the rest of the work in silence.

Telling Coulson has helped, actually. The rest of the day gets easier, and Skye even forgets for a while. She even forgets enough that when she stumbles upon the whole team gathered in the common room that evening she doesn't make the direct connection and for a moment she thinks something terrible must have happen.

"What's going on, you guys? Why are you all here?"

Everybody looks at each other, at a loss. They are alarming her.

"A birthday party," Fitz confesses all of the sudden. "Sort of."

Skye frowns.

"Coulson told us," Bobbi explains.

She turns to him. He looks pretty non-chalant about this.

Skye realizes she has never had a surprise birthday party before. She doesn't even know if she likes that kind of thing. Her team seems excited.

"Coulson didn't tell us with enough time to prepare," Bobbi starts.

"He didn't give us _any_ time to prepare," Simmons protests, obviously upset by being robbed of her favorite hobby – preparing for things.

Coulson stays silent. Skye wonders how much he told them about the conversation in his office.

"So we figured out that best thing was to ask Billy for the key to the pantry," Bobbi goes on.

"Or steal it," Hunter explains under his breath.

"Or steal it," Bobbi confirms without missing a beat. Skye likes that, that there's been some minor theft involved in her birthday preparations. That Billy is going to be furious but he can't take it out on the birthday girl. "We figured the best thing would be just to put together a lot of really disgusting food and a lot of beer and just hang out."

It's not extravagant and it's not expensive, but junk food, comfort food, yeah, that sounds like a plan. And wow, she didn't know SHIELD still owned so many bags of pretzels. She's not going anywhere near those.

"Thank you," she tells Coulson. "For doing this."

"I hope I didn't overstep," he says. "I thought you might like this."

"No, it's – this is _perfect_."

Not a word she says lightly. But this is pretty much it – though not exactly, Skye feels like there's still something missing, but just the tiniest bit, it must be her imagination.

She feels like hugging Coulson, perfect or not. But this is not a deathly situation and they are not about to say goodbye to each other for god knows how long, so she bites down the impulse.

"And there's the presents," Simmons says.

"Presents?" Skye asks, confused. "But how could you–?"

"Obviously we couldn't go out and buy you stuff," Bobbi intervenes, self-appointed MC of the evening or so it seems, with Coulson behind her nodding slightly at everything she says. "So we asked everybody to pitch in with whatever they could."

Simmons basically skips towards Skye. Skye smiles at her obvious excitement. Her face still betrays traces of her recent misadventures. She gives Skye a little wrapped object. Leave it to Jemma to find some gift-wrapping paper in the Playground. It looks re-used, though, so Skye figures she's the kind of person who saves the wrapping on her own gifts for future use. Skye tries not to tear the paper apart.

"I noticed you don't have any picture in a frame in your room," Simmons says as Skye uncovers the object.

Picture frames are for people with houses, with homes, Skye wants to say. She never saw the point. You can keep whatever picture you like in your hard drive or your phone. What's the point of a picture frame? It's just useless weight. Or Skye used to think. But when she looks at the picture Simmons has chosen – even in that kind of tacky golden frame she has chosen, or rather that was hers in the first place – when she looks at Trip and his beautiful smile the weight doesn't seem as useless as before.

She mutters thanks to Simmons, not trusting her voice in this.

Fitz and Mack, on the other hand, look very conspirational and full of themselves as they present their offering.

"Isn't that my bio-meter watch?" Skye asks, examining the gadget because of course it's a gadget. " Your birthday present is that I should monitor my heartbeat again?"

"Not exactly," Mack says, smirking. "Fitz."

"Oh yes, we've – modified? it so not only it can withstand your _Inhuman_ power," he explains, still putting _Inhuman_ between invisible quotation marks, like he's unsure of Skye would get offended. "It also feeds your bio-data into an algorithm that transforms it to musical notes. That's the simplified, layman's–"

"It makes pretty music," Mack sums it up.

"That matches your powers," Fitz corrects him.

Mack chuckles. "It's not very practical."

Skye is, mostly, in awe.

"You made this in just one afternoon?" she asks.

"You forgets you're talking to two geniuses," Fitz tells her warmly, putting his hands on his hips.

"As I said, not much use for it," Mack repeats, like he feels bad about not giving Skye something more valuable. "But if you ever wondered what your superpowers sound like..."

"Well, I had never wondered what my superpowers sound like," she says. " _Until now_."

She gives them each a shy kiss of the cheek. Fitz snorts and Skye remembers when he used to have a crush on her and he imagined she hadn't noticed.

No one expects Coulson to have a gift because he's the boss, she guess, and to be honest the fact that he thought of doing this for her is enough. Coulson seems to be thinking the same, because he doesn't make any excuses for himself.

May looks a bit... if she didn't know May she'd say she was embarrassed.

"I don't have a present, but you can take tomorrow morning off training."

"Best present ever," Skye tells her and they exchange a knowing look. May has been specially stritch in their morning sessions since Simmons got abducted into Kree dimension or whatever that was. It's May's way of saying she was scared out of her mind – not that she'd let that notion slip in front of anyone other than Skye – and that she wants everybody ready for whatever comes next. And Skye appreciates it, she wants to keep in shape (she doesn't want to rely on her powers to protect her team) but a morning of just sleeping in really sounds like the best birthday present ever.

She turns around to find the next offer.

"Hey, I organized the whole thing," Bobbi says, waving her off. "I don't have to give you a present."

Skye teases her: "Too bad, I was looking forward to some more of that Cactus Cooler."

"I have the answer for that," Hunter says, putting his arm around Skye and taking her aside. "Shh, don't share this with anyone. Anyone other than me."

He presents her with a single (thought big) bottle of beer.

"You're giving me beer for my birthday?"

"You're an infidel," Hunter protests. "This is not just any beer. This is Belgian, from Frank Boon's brewery, this is –"

"It looks like beer," she tells him.

"You'll like it, it tastes like raspberries."

Skye chuckles.

But she's not greedy, she decides to share the beer – everybody is a bit curious about it, even Coulson – and they all sit down on the leather couches together around the food. Everybody looks at her expectantly, eager to hear they made the right move organizing all this. Skye knows she should thank them.

"I don't know what to say," Skye tells them.

"Happy birthday, Skye, " Simmons says, sitting next to her, and hugs her.

Birthdays are shit, but this one is okay.

 

**five**

Her birthdays are shit at best and at worse something like today and perhaps there's a special kind of self-flagellation in trying to spend this one with her father.

Spending your birthday with your father should be a normal enough wish, but in this case the kicker is that her father has no idea who she is.

"I haven't seen you in a while," Cal says, friendly but like you would be friendly to a stranger and maybe potential client.

She looks away. Last year she took to visiting him sometimes. She knew it was not exactly protocol and that it might endanger them both. She had been in a bad place and found it comforting, seeing Cal and asking all these ridiculous questions about pets and their needs.

"I haven't been in town for a while."

She had made up some story about having business in the building, to explain why she would pop into Cal's life from time to time, when she didn't even have a dog or a cat. Sometimes she pretends she's asking stuff for a friend who wants to get a dog (well, not entirely untrue). It's pretty pathetic, and she wonders what Cal might think about this strange young woman hanging around a vet clinic when she doesn't own any animal.

"Still undecided about getting a pet?" he asks.

"Yeah," she says. "I don't think I could give it the life it deserves."

"Oh?"

"My line of work is kind of hectic."

"What do you do? No, don't tell me. It sounds mysterious, better not to know."

He smiles, trying to be congenial. And he succeeds. Skye can see why the people in the neighbourhood like him. The clinic is a big hit.

Cal has kind eyes.

She hasn't realized before. With all the murdering people or trying to murder people or luring people to Kree temples. It's not something you would notice in those circumstances, the kindness in his eyes. 

"Today is my birthday, you know," Skye says, trying to sound casual.

Cal gives her a broad, clueless smile.

(He said it had been the best day ever. And now it's gone. Skye couldn't even hold on to that.)

He grabs something from the shelf behind him and gives it to Skye. She's still looking at his eyes.

"Here, on the house," he says. Skye gives him a question look. "For your birthday."

Skye looks at the object in her hand. It's some kind of biting toy for dogs.

"But I don't have a pet," she argues.

Cal makes that "ah!" hand gesture of his. Something inside Skye starts aching and doesn't stop.

"Now you have a good reason to get one," Cal says.

She laughs.

Can you miss someone the exact moment you have them in front of you? Would it be too creepy to ask for a hug from a stranger? Skye makes a few more inocuous questiongs about pet care and she promises she will be back soon.

(she always keeps her promises to her father)

When she leaves the clinic she feels a lot shittier than she did this morning. 

It's funny because she finally got what she wanted, all her life, she realizes as she looks at the toy in her hand: her father has just given her a birthday present. She never imagined things would turn out like that. 

She starts walking in a daze of – she's not sure disapointment is the word, because it's not Cal's fault. It's something that tastes bitter, that's for sure. 

She only realizes something is wrong when she catches a flash of red in the corner of her eye.

"Skye," she hears a familiar voice calling her around the corner.

Coulson.

Great. On top of everything. Birthdays are the worst. Why did she think she have that sort of thing?

"So this is where you went," he says, throwing a look back to where she was coming from.

"Can we talk somewhere else?" 

The idea of having let Coulson down and being in public for it is just too much right now.

He nods.

In a couple of minutes they are back to sitting in Lola and that is good, it's a safe place. It's the best place Skye knows, if she thinks about it. It reminds her of her old van, in a way, though shinier. In the same way Coulson reminds her of her old van, but shinier too.

She wonders what he must be thinking right now. That she's pathetic and selfish, most probably.

He waits for her to start talking.

Skye hopes to shrink in her seat.

She knew the risks – that if she keeps going back the Tahiti protocol might fail, might trigger some buried memory in Cal. 

"I'm sorry, I know this goes against a million rules," she says.

She sees Coulson shake his head from the corner of her eye.

He's waiting for her to look at him to start talking himself.

"I'm not here to chastize you, Skye," he says quietly. "I was worried about you."

Skye raises her eyebrow at him.

"Oh."

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"I'm fine now," she replies, knowing Coulson wouldn't press her for more. He doesn't need to know what happened at Cal's clinic or why she has come. Maybe he can imagine it perfectly. She knows he'll listen if she wants to talk.

"Okay," Coulson says softly.

Skye lets a moment pass, looking out into the distance. She watches people walk with their pets in their arms, headed for the clinic. 

"My father has kind eyes," she says all of the sudden. She needs to tell someone. 

"I know," Coulson says. She turns to look at him. "I noticed. They are like yours."

Her stomach drops at his words. She doesn't feel like crying anymore, but she's not sure if that's good or bad.

"Are you ready to go back?" he asks.

Skye nods.

She doesn't have to wait much to hear the familiar, cherished sound of Lola's engine starting. Coulson made the drive here just to make sure she was okay, she realizes.

She realizes.

She's been a little slow on the uptake, but she just now realizes that Coulson loves her a lot.

For now, that's not a bad thing to discover on your birthday.

 

**six**

Birthdays are normally shit but this year Skye, for the first time since she was very little and didn't know better, is looking forward to it. Who knows, maybe this year is different. 

This yea is already different because she's nervous, and she wakes up at five, the bed oddly empty (she guesses he's nervous too, she doesn't give it a second thought, he's not the kind to leave just like that) and starts pacing the base in her pajamas like a sleepwalker.

She finds Coulson in the common area, in the kitchen, predictably.

He's bent over the counter, looks like he's baking – which, okay, Skye is not entirely surprised. She's still getting used to the idea of someone wanting to cook for her but she knew that her birthday celebrations would involve food of some sort. Coulson is not a hard one to read, not for her anyway, and he has been ordering stuff from Billy, thinking she wouldn't notice.

What surprises her is that when she finds him Coulson is quietly swearing at something, under his breath.

"What's up?" she asks, moving her hand to touch his back.

Coulson turns a bit. By the look of the counter there has been cooking going on for a while. Skye feels like reaching her fingers to scoop some leftover dough. Whatever it is, she's sure it's delicious. Everything Coulson makes is delicious. It's kind of annoying.

"I didn't think you'd wake up so early," he says. "I didn't mean to make you wake up alone on your birthday."

Skye looks at him in disbelief. Of course Coulson would think about that, would feel bad about that. She touches his upper arm.

"It's okay," Skye shakes her head.

He turns all the way, leaning against the counter and finally facing her. He has an unusual expression on his face. It's not as much tiredness as defeat.

"I was baking something for you," he tells her, a bit hopelessly.

"Evidently," Skye says. "Why were you cursing at it?"

Coulson frowns.

Skye realizes something is wrong.

"What's that smell?" she asks. It smells like something is burnt. " _Oh no_."

"Yeah."

This is amazing.

"But you are the greatest cook I've ever seen. How could you burn something? It's unthinkable."

She admits she's having fun there, specially at the expense of the annoyed expression Coulson is making now. She can tell the annoyment is only a ploy to cover the embarrassment.

"I was distracted," he says, like he's pained by the admission.

This is beyond distracted, Skye thinks. This must be some sort of existential crisis of epic proportions for Coulson (and no, she will not start laughing at him, she will be a good supportive girlfriend no matter how hilarious she finds the event). Phil Coulson _does not burn food_. It's like a law of nature or something.

"You must have been _beyond_ distracted," she teases a bit. That gains her a groan. Not entirely unpleasant – but there will be time for that later. When was the last time she had birthday sex, anyway? Her last birthday with Miles they had been a little too drunk for that. And last year she did get a birthday kiss from Coulson. A birthday first kiss, which is weird to think about, that her birthday will now and forever coincide with that, it will always bring up that memory. Birthday memories are supposed to suck, for Skye. Coulson has changed a lot of things.

"Don't you have a little timer thingie that tells you when you have to take stuff out of the oven?" she asks. She has seen his silly timer thingie, it's in the shape of a big red tomato for some reason, maybe because he uses it mainly for pasta. Skye likes when he makes pasta. She gets to make fun of the tomato timer thingie _every time_ and every time Coulson chuckles at her bad jokes.

"I do," he replies. "I forgot to set it."

Skye starts laughing. To be fair, she's hold off long enough.

"It's not funny, I ruined your breakfast," Coulson complains.

"I'm so sorry, I just can't wrap my head around it. You're _Phil Coulson_. How could you be _that_ distracted?"

He touches the back of his neck in frustration. Oh she knows that gesture.

"Because I was baking something for you, because this is the first –"

He stops.

Skye hadn't realized before, that this might have some importance. _For him_. The first birthday of hers they spend together. Well, together _together_. They've spent birthdays together before.

It makes sense Coulson cares about such milestones. He comes from a different world. A happy home where birthdays where joyous and expected, with presents and friends and family dinners and probably some BBQ, if they do that sort of thing where he comes from. He never had to suspect of birthdays. He never had to lament how foster parents would put extra effort on those celebrations (birthdays and Christmas alike), but slack off every other day of the year. Skye comes from a world where a good birthday normally meant misery around the corner. Where every passing year meant you had your chances of being adopted reduced. Where it was better to forget altogether. Coulson always knew when he was born. He had a birth certificate and loving parents to tell him the story of how the taxi driver who took his mother to the hospital wanted her to name the children after him and that he was this close of being called Eddie Coulson. He couldn't imagine having such disregard for your own birthday as Skye eventually acquaired. And Skye would never want that for him. She loves his short, happy childhood. She loves his naive heart. She loves that he finds it natural to wish good things for her. She loves – 

"I'm sorry I messed your birthday breakfast," he says. "It was meant to be perfect."

She steps up to him, resting her hands on his hips.

She loves him.

But she's already told him this, surprisingly.

She twists her fingers into the fabric of the old t-shirt he normally uses when he cooks. She waits for him to look at her before she starts talking.

"When I was a kid I always wanted my birthday to be special, because I didn't have many special days back then. Just crappy and crappier ones, you pick. I wanted one day when I could feel – I don't know – I guess loved. But you? You make me feel loved _every_ day of the year. You understand?"

He looks touched by her words and Skye would love to see more of that face he's making but she also needs to kiss him right now. He opens his mouth easily under her, used to her rhythm. His hands close loosely over her shoulders. Skye can taste something sweet in his mouth, from cooking and tasting. She smiles against the kiss, pressing her whole body against Coulson and him against the edge of the counter. This is already the best birthday she's ever had, she wants to tell him.

He makes these things seem easy, feel easy, but they are not. She's not clueless, she knows the kind of life they live and why they have to fight to keep even as simple as their relationship. This year has had no shortage of disaster and heartache, but it has been different because Skye had this, she had Coulson.

When she pulls away he is smiling idiotically at her, no longer moping about the ruined breakfast.

"What were you baking anyway?" she asks.

"Cupcakes."

"Cupcakes. Yummy."

"They have your name on them. Or were supposed to."

Skye blinks at him. Hard to believe, this guy.

"You were making cupcakes with my name on them?"

Coulson looks away, his cheeks a shade pinkier than normal.

"Am I dating a fifteen year old?" she asks.

He smiles, touching her neck and bringing their mouths together for a quick, hey-there-you kiss.

"At least I got you a present," he replies, taking an envelope out of the back pocket of his pants.

"I get cupcakes and a present too? I'm such a lucky girl," she teases but it's true.

The teasing stops once she reads the paper he's just given her. She has to read it twice, because at first she thinks she's misreading it, making a mistake. Skye holds it out towards him, like it's going to burn her if she keeps it in her hand too long.

"Coulson... no, I can't accept this," she says, though it shouldn't have to be said. Coulson should know. Coulson should know better than this. What is he thinking? "And you know I can't."

He leans back against the counter again, and shows no intention of taking back the piece of paper, looking like what he's just done is the most normal thing in the world. Well, it's not.

"You can. And I want you to. I've given it a lot of thought."

She tilts her head impatiently.

"Come on, you can't give me Lola for my birthday," she tells him, like he's a small kid and she has to explain things very simply for him to understand.

"Look, if you don't want it, if you think I'm rushing you or –"

"It's not that," Skye interrupts him. She holds the envelope a little tighter now, wrinkling the border.

"Are you sure?" Coulson asks.

She bites her bottom lip.

What was he thinking?

"Coulson, it's... it's your father's car," Skye tries to explain. "It's your memories of him. A family thing."

"Exactly," he says quietly, touching Skye's hair tenderly, thumb followingthe lines on her forehead. "It should stay that way. I want to know she's in good hands, whatever happens. You're my family now."

This is what he was thinking.

Today of all days.

Something clicks all of the sudden, something that was missing all those years ago.

And Skye doesn't mean to be unkind with those who came before and tried to make her birthdays a lot less crappy – she is not dimissing the stolen gifts and the hidden cakes and the disastrous dinners and the improvised parties and the picture frames and the kindness of strangers and everyone who took care of her and loved her before. But she thinks this might be it. This is what she had been looking for, long after she thought she had given up looking for it. Yes, it has come to her in a strange form – in the shape of a fifty-something zombie spy with one hand – but it has come.

"Come here," she tells him.

Coulson smirks. "I'm already here."

" _Exactly_."

He wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her into a hug. He smells like burnt cupcakes and Skye hopes she never forgets that smell, _ever_. She presses herself against him tight, mouthing some superfluous thank-yous against the soft skin of his neck as Coulson runs his had along her back.

"What the hell, guys, this is a common area. We _eat_ here."

They turn around to see one bed-haired, sleepy-eyed Lance Hunter walking towards them.

Coulson clears his throat and lets go of Skye immediately, still bothered by PDA after all this time. She smiles at his cute discomfort.

"I was just –"

"He was baking cupcakes for my birthday," Skye explains, impervious to shame.

Coulson is still fumbling. "We were just..."

Hunter looks at him, all wide-eyed and horrified. Skye finds it odd, if anything he's been _too_ supportive of their unusual relationship.

"Today's your birthday?" he asks, pointing at Skye. She gives him an amused nod. That makes more sense. "Excuse me, lady and not-that-much-of-a-gentleman, I have to go see a guy about some beer."

Coulson gives Hunter's dramatic exit a look of dismay.

Skye can tell what he is thinking.

"It's going to be a long day," he sighs, looking back at the oven oozing scent of burnt pastry.

Skye puts her arm around his shoulder.

"Yeah," she agrees.

But she's ready for it. She's ready to love every second of it.


End file.
